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Recently I’ve been reading ‘Make Me A Sandwich Bitch‘ on tumblr which documents the troubled and contradictory minds of men on twitter who can’t resist replaying the old, worn out mantra of the impotent misogynist (with hilarious results).

This has got me to wondering, what is it exactly about the sandwich that appeals to the mind of a misogynist? The sandwich has to be the simplest of all the unfrozen foods so is the point to prove what lazy, useless cunts they are? Is it to revel in their inability/unwillingness to perform the most menial of tasks? Is the menial nature of the task supposed to add to the humiliation of the ‘bitch’ they’re attempting to degrade? If they get off on subjugating someone else to their will then why wouldn’t they go for a roast dinner or something more arduous? Or are we to add impatient to the aforementioned list of attributes – giving us lazy, useless and impatient (which unsurprisingly correlates to their attitudes to sex).

Or is this just a self esteem issue? Do these men feel like they’re not worth more than just a shitty sandwich? (If so, then well done. Spot on with that one.) But still, if you’re going to be a misogynist then at least try and be good at it. If you’re going to subject the world to your cum-laden power fantasies then at least give us the benefit of reading about some nice foods.

Be imaginative, misogynists.

Value the only thing that comforts you at night, for goodness sakes. You are going into the grave cold, alone and with a terrible litany of sins and grotesqueries to your name. And as your budget coffin is lowered into your smelly grave, any woman you may have tricked into your life is going to be thinking about how much celebratory champagne she can drink without ending up in hospital where she would be diagnosed with overdosing on joy. So at the very least you should get a good imaginary meal in the only universe that will ever value you – the one you’ve created inside your tiny, ugly, little head.

Just to get you started here are some ideas:

‘Bitch, make me a creme brûlée’ – for the chauvinist with a sweet tooth.

‘Bitch, make me a char-grilled spatchcock with a medley of baby vegetables and red wine jus on a bed of cauliflower puree’ – for the misogynists with a more developed palate.

Or ‘Bitch, make me some spaghetti bolognaise’ for the woman-hating prick in need of some old-fashioned, home-made comfort food.

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It’s Operation Sovereign Borders, people! Man the borders. Deploy xenophobia on my signal and GO GO GO. Where is your armour gilded from fear and ignorance? GET YOURSELVES TOGETHER. We are under attack from evil, deadly refugees with all their…refugeeness and…human needs. They will reduce this country to a wasteland.

You need to shoot the boats and the people in the boats and the water that the boats are in. And then you need to shoot the land connected to the water and any boats on that land as well. Then you need to shoot yourself because you may be a refugee and not even know it. They’re sneaky like that. They will get into your blood stream and take over and then they will find your family and kill them all. So if you think you might be a refugee then you should probably enact a pre-emptive strike against yourself. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt. You’re not a human being anymore, you’re just a refugee.

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While it’s encouraging to hear that the issue of the RU486 pill is back on the table, the discussion around abortion continues to anger and confound me in various terrible ways.

People talk about the difficulty of abortions as if the difficulty lies in something material, in some practical step you have to take to have an abortion.

It doesn’t.

The difficulty lies in the heart and the mind and the soul of the woman having to make that terrible choice.

If you think that not having to go through a surgery to have an abortion will mean that women will take abortion more lightly then you have a low fucking opinion of women. Whether you mean to or not, you have a low fucking opinion of women.

We are not children. We are not wanton. We are not soulless. We are not immoral.

We don’t need you to control us. We don’t need you to coddle us. We don’t need you to protect us from ourselves.

And you don’t need to protect yourselves from us.

You act as though you’re the sentry at the gate between society and the barbarian woman, ready to rip babies from the womb with no more thought than picking an apple.

Well fuck you.

Fuck you for thinking so little of us.

Fuck you for not loving us.

Fuck you for not trusting us.

You’re supposed to be my father, my brother, my lover, my friend.

But you assume the worst of us and then ask us to trust you in the same breath.

You mirror a false, paranoid image back to us of the lunatic woman tearing society apart with her complete moral abandon. And still you expect us to love you? Still you expect us to believe that you have our best interests at heart?